Ami rolled her eyes. “Merely a coincidence. Now then, ifyou gentlemen wouldn’t mind, I really ought to be getting back to work.”
Mr. Gilbert narrowed his eyes. “Should you not wait until the scholar in charge arrives?”
“Iamthe scholar in charge.”
Mr. Gilbert’s wide brow wrinkled. “But you’re a woman.”
“Nice of you to notice,” she fumed.
Mr. Price laughed as his gaze bounced between them. “I own the situation is a bit unorthodox, Gil, but Miss Dalton has done a fine job thus far. Her knowledge is all-encompassing, and I find she takes great care with the relics, going so far as to handle each one with gloves.”
Well. At least one man recognized her worth. She peered up at Mr. Price. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”
“Hmph.” Mr. Fletcher grunted. “For your sake and mine, old man, I hope you are right.”
“I have no doubt on the matter.” Mr. Price smiled at her.
As did Mr. Fletcher. “I meant no offense, Miss Dalton. I am merely surprised to find such a beautiful woman tucked away in a room of dusty old artifacts.”
“And on that note,” Mr. Price cut in, “we shall leave you to your work. I look forward to hearing about what you uncover tonight at dinner.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it.” She spread her hands. “If I’m to meet that deadline of yours, I really ought to keep at it.”
“And yet you need to eat, Miss Dalton.”
“A bowl of soup will serve just fine.”
“Good. Then first course it is. Though I’ve asked the cook for Indian fare, which you might find more irresistible than cracking open another crate. Besides, with your zeal for the project, I have no doubt you’ll finish your work before the end of the month.” He tossed her a wink before pivoting away.
Ami grabbed the table for support. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear the man was flirting with her. And worse...
It was working.
8
It felt wrong to leave like this, which was frustrating. Ami pulled Price House’s back door shut and stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine. It wasn’t as if she was breaking the law—well, man’s law, at any rate. But God’s...?
Her heels dug hard into the pea gravel pathway. Was it truly deceitful to have told Barnaby she needed to retrieve a book from her father’s office in town? She would do so, of course, just to make good on her word, but she didn’t really need one of her father’s books. What she needed was to make haste in securing the amulets, then rush them back to the museum and hopefully return here in time for dessert. Mr. Price probably wouldn’t even notice her absence. A man like him had more important matters on his mind than a hireling who missed a bowl of soup. Besides, he had Mr. Fletcher to dine with.
She followed the path around the garden wall toward the stables out back, hoping to talk the stableboy into saddling a horse for her. Honestly, in a sense it felt more wrong to stay here. Surely Mr. Price would understand the drive to transact a sale in a timely fashion. Why, she was just as much a person of business as he. Mr. Price simply happened to meet with his clients in a comfortable office instead of a deserted park at night.
With a seller who’d as soon cut a man’s—or woman’s—throat if crossed.
Shoving that thought aside, she upped her pace, absently rubbing where the bruise on her cheek had been. She’d be careful as always, so there was nothing to fear, especially since she’d made it clear to Mr. Dandrae that whoever he sent her way from now on must swear to conduct business without violence on pain of retribution—Mr. Dandrae’s retribution. Since that would involve paid muscle of his own, he’d be sure to take extra screening precautions, or she’d quit doing business with him altogether. And more than anything, he did not wish to lose an income stream, so she had no doubt he’d comply.
As she rounded the backside of the garden wall, her steps slowed. Three wicker skeps sat in a row on a long bench, tempting her to pause for a moment. At this time of day, most of the bees were foraging for nectar, yet some buzzed around the dome-shaped hives. She really didn’t have time to admire them. She could come back tomorrow. ... Still, one little look wouldn’t take but a minute.
Crouching slowly, she focused on one busy honeybee in particular. Its tiny wings flapped frantically, producing a soft hum as it closed in on the small entrance at the bottom. What a tireless worker, absorbed on the task at hand, not even noticing she was around. A frown creased her brow. Father often sang the merits of getting lost in one’s work, a virtue she couldn’t deny—except when it shut out someone you loved.
“Ye must have honey in yer veins, fer most women would admire from afar.”
Startled by a deep voice, she shot to her feet, her hand flying to her chest. The man in front of her was a tall fellow, lean and sinewy, skin like a leather coin purse. He wore a straw hat with a broad brim and a blue work smock. Canvas leggings covered his trousers. In one gloved hand, he held a basket, and in the other, a tin smoke pot puffing out small clouds. The scent of beeswax clung to him, that and something more pungent. Manure.
Ah, the gardener.
“Forgive me.” She smiled. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Despite his rugged appearance, a kind grin lifted his lips. “It ain’t intrudin’ if yer helpin,’ missy. Care to give me a hand?”
